The Gray Man, He-Who-Walks-Without-Walking. Some say he sustains himself on the fresh-born nightmares of the slumbering. Others that he is a harbinger of ill fortune borne on dark wings of refuse and shadow. But all who see him–faceless, ever-seeking, aloft in his trench coat and once-fashionable hat, are forever scarred by the sight.

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“I had that dream again, computer.”

“Are you referring to the recurring dream of which you have complained for some months now?”

“That’s right. Me, walking…surrounded by color and fragrance, flowers of every shape and variety. It’s…it’s impossible, but I think I may be starting to believe it may be real, computer.”

“Come now, sir. There is no such thing as flowers.”

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